And she’d done all that.
A late-blooming cancer had stolen her grandfather quickly. But at least he hadn’t suffered. The Torah commanded that a body must not go unburied overnight, and she’d made sure that her grandfather had been interred before sunset. She’d also not embalmed him, dressing him in a simple linen shroud inside a plain wooden coffin. She’d heard him say many times,
Her grandfather would have been proud.
She found a table and sat.
She liked the Cafe Rahofer, with its marble tabletops, crystal chandeliers, and bentwood chairs. She’d learned this place came with some history, as both Stalin and Trotsky had played chess here. A piano in a far corner entertained a light crowd for after 9:00 P.M. on a Tuesday night. A glass of wine and a plate of schnitzel sounded great. She ordered both with some mineral water and began to relax.
“Are you alone?”
She turned to see a man standing a few feet away. He appeared a little older, maybe thirty, trim, extra fit, with a two-day stubble dusting his chin and neck. The hair that covered his head was thin and closely cropped, like a monk’s cap, his blue eyes alert and lively.
“I’m alone,” she said, “and prefer to stay that way.”
He threw her a smile and sat at her table.
“I told you I wasn’t interested,” she made clear.
“You will be.”
She resented his forwardness. “How about you leave now, before I call someone over.”
He leaned in close. “Then you won’t get to hear what I have to say about Zachariah Simon.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
ZACHARIAH ENTERED THE ROOM AND CLOSED THE DOOR. HE’D driven straight back from Mount Dora to Orlando and his west side hotel. He quickly found his laptop and connected to the Internet, linking with a secured server in Austria, the same one used during the video transmission to Tom Sagan. He’d commissioned the system himself, equipped with an ultra-sophisticated encryption program. He checked in with his personal secretary in Austria, satisfied that nothing required his immediate attention. He then severed the link and ordered food from room service.
Sagan was cooperating. He’d signed the papers and would be at the cemetery in the morning.
He’d accomplished the first phase.
But time was running short.
He’d read the American press reports, lauding the coming summit. Danny Daniels, the president of the United States, in his final year in office, had staked his legacy on securing some sort of lasting Mideast peace. Thankfully, that summit was still four months away.
Plenty of time for him to complete what he’d started.
But what he sought had stayed hidden a long time.
Could it all be myth?
No. It existed. It had to. God would not have allowed anything less.
Alle had confirmed that her grandfather ordered a packet buried with him, contrary to Orthodox tradition, where nothing save the body went into the grave. Even more convincing was the fact that she knew information that no one, short of the Levite, could possibly know.
He was on the right path.
He had to be.
Surely the Levite had been cautious in what he shared with his granddaughter, given the task was exclusively for a male. Abiram Sagan could not pass ultimate responsibility to his granddaughter. So he solved his dilemma by taking the secret with him to his grave.
Thankfully, he had Alle totally under his control. A willing partner with no knowledge of what was truly involved. She was an ideologue, consumed by her passion for her new religion and her grandfather’s memory. Her beliefs were sincere. All she required was careful handling.
And that he would provide.
Until she was no longer useful.
Then he would kill Alle Becket.
———
ALLE WAS INTRIGUED, SO SHE ASKED, “WHAT ABOUT ZACHARIAH Simon?”
“He should be a concern of yours,” the man sitting across the table said.
She wasn’t in the mood for more games. “Do you plan to explain yourself? Or do I leave?”
“You met Simon in Spain. Didn’t you find it strange that he found you?”
“I don’t even know your name.”
